The Shadow Cell: A Chilling Psychological Thriller (Wolf Lake Thriller Book 6)

by Dan Padavona

  On tired legs, she climbed out of the ditch and sat behind the wheel. Now she wanted to go home. Even if she drove at twice the speed limit, she wouldn’t reach Wolf Lake before six. Thomas had ordered her to check in when she arrived, and she needed an excuse for being late.

  Aguilar inhaled and steadied her voice, hiding the embarrassing quiver. She radioed dispatch.

  “Be advised, unit two is stopping at a roadside diner for coffee and breakfast. It’s been a long night.”

  “I hear you, unit two. Pancakes and eggs sound good right about now. Let us know when you reach Wolf Lake.”

  Aguilar promised she would. She shifted into drive and allowed the cruiser to roll on its own momentum before she touched the gas. Her hands refused to sit still, and her eyes swept the shadows for another vision of Avery Neal.

  Even on the highway, she never drove faster than forty. Tractor trailers roared past, the drivers shooting her concerned glares, worried there was something wrong with the cruiser. She waved each time and gave a thumbs up.

  She couldn’t wait to reach Wolf Lake and put the night behind her. But when the village appeared before her windshield, it only reminded the deputy of her failures. Aguilar returned the cruiser to the station and switched to her own vehicle, a red Rav4 with a scratch on the driver’s side door.

  She fell into bed face-down and lay there. Breathing and thinking. Aguilar couldn’t do this another day. She’d announce her resignation this afternoon.

  20

  Thomas awakened to Jack licking his face. He worked the sand out of his eyes and squinted at the clock. Ten-thirty.

  Giving the dog a pat on the head, Thomas sat up and lowered his eyes as sunlight burned through the windows. His head throbbed. Though he’d taken Aguilar’s advice and switched to green tea, he needed coffee this morning. He doubted he could function without a caffeine influx.

  Jack followed at his heels until Thomas let him outside. LeVar’s Chrysler Limited was gone from the driveway, and the lights were off inside the Mourning house next door. Everybody was up and going about their days except Thomas. Realizing he was running low on breakfast food, he fed the dog and sliced a cantaloupe. While the coffee brewed, he checked his messages. According to dispatch, Deputy Aguilar made it home before seven. He wondered what took her so long. A text from Agent Gardy confirmed Scarlett Bell had landed in Syracuse at eight o’clock. The FBI requested a station meeting at the sheriff’s office at two. Agent Bell would reveal her preliminary profile. Everyone seemed eager to catch the man who’d evaded the BAU for eight years.

  Thomas sifted through his notes as he ate. The coffee twisted his lips. Though he appreciated the jolt of energy, he’d lost his taste for morning brew. After showering, he dressed for work and radioed the office. He had a few stops to make and planned to arrive an hour before the station meeting. Before leaving the house, he’d called and confirmed Chelsey was at Wolf Lake Consulting this morning. After the last week’s horrors, he needed to be around friends. He was in luck. Darren, Raven, and LeVar were also at the private investigation firm.

  As he drove the F-150 through the village center, his thoughts returned to the elusive killer. What made the murderer tick? The psychopath didn’t have a preferred victim type, making him difficult to catch. But all criminals displayed tendencies. Humiliation and mutilation drove the unsub. He goaded the FBI and police by placing body parts in populated areas. Whoever the killer was, he needed attention. More so, he wanted to shock and terrorize the public. And he must have a massive ego to take so many risks.

  Chelsey met him at the door with a hug. Thomas didn’t let go for a long time. Her presence grounded him.

  In the hallway, LeVar slapped him on the back.

  “Glad you made it, Shep Dawg. You need a pick-me-up, and we’re just about to eat lunch.”

  Chelsey gave Thomas a concerned look.

  “Did you eat anything today?”

  “Half a cantaloupe.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Come on. I’ll make you something healthy.”

  Darren and Raven worked at the kitchen counter as LeVar removed plates from the cupboard.

  “Long night?” Darren asked with a knowing glance.

  “Or an early morning. Days and nights blend after a while.”

  Darren, who’d worked shifts as a police officer, appreciated the effects long nights and inconsistent hours had on a body.

  “I remember it all too well. What do you prefer: ham or roast beef?”

  “Eat, Darren. I’ll take care of Thomas,” Chelsey said, slicing a roll. “Honey mustard?”

  “Sounds perfect,” Thomas said.

  Making himself useful, Thomas pulled glasses from the cupboard and poured drinks. They pulled their chairs around the table and sat down for lunch. Chelsey placed a bag of potato chips in the center of the table and told everyone to help themselves.

  Raven gestured at Thomas with a ham sandwich, something Thomas found amusing.

  “Chelsey says the FBI is coming to Wolf Lake. Is that true?”

  “They’re already here. Neil Gardy, an agent I worked with on joint task forces in Los Angeles, is staying in Coral Lake this week. His partner, Scarlett Bell, flew into Syracuse this morning.”

  “Scarlett Bell.” Darren raised his eyes to the ceiling and rubbed his chin. “I read about her. She profiles serial killers, right?”

  “The national magazines have an infatuation with Agent Bell. Besides her track record of success, she has an interesting background. Heartbreaking, really.”

  “What happened to her?”

  Thomas finished chewing and set his sandwich down.

  “When she was a child, a serial killer abducted her friend. The two girls had been playing near the river behind Bell’s house.”

  LeVar leaned forward and asked, “Did the police find the girl?”

  “Not alive.” The others became quiet as Thomas recalled the story. “Eventually, the killer tried to kidnap Bell. But she escaped. Agent Bell blocked out the kidnapping until a few years ago when the murderer resurfaced. Bell killed him steps from where he’d kidnapped her friend.”

  “That’s insane. I’m surprised someone hasn’t made a movie out of that story.”

  Thomas slumped back in his chair.

  “According to Agent Gardy, the attention embarrasses Bell. She has the looks and the charisma of a star when she’s on camera, but she prefers to keep to herself.” Thomas sipped his water. “Anyhow, she’s our best bet to catch Lonnie McKinney’s kidnapper.”

  Darren shifted his chair closer to the table.

  “Raven and I hosted Scout and LeVar at the cabin recently.”

  “Another super-secret investigations meeting?”

  “Something like that. We settled on a case, and I think we’re crossing paths with your investigation.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Have you ever heard of the Poplar Corners ghost?” Raven asked before she popped a chip into her mouth.

  “Sounds like some script John Carpenter turned down.”

  “Scout brought him up,” LeVar said. “There’s a website devoted to the ghost. For the last several years, some Peeping Tom has crept around Poplar Corners, staring through people’s windows at night.”

  Thomas straightened his back. That sounded too much like James McKinney’s story.

  “But he never kidnapped someone before.”

  “Maybe he decided peeping wasn’t enough.”

  “It made me wonder after I read about this morning’s kidnapping,” Darren said. “Four years ago, a woman went missing from Poplar Corners.”

  “Harmony Santos,” Chelsey said, covering her mouth. “That’s my latest case. Her husband hired me to track her down.”

  “What if we’re all searching for the same guy?”

  Thomas set his forearms on the table.

  “Are you suggesting Lonnie McKinney’s abductor kidnapped Harmony Santos four years ago and spent the better part of
the last decade peeping through windows?”

  “It’s possible.” Darren set his plate aside. “All I’m saying is we should put our heads together. While you investigate the kidnapping with the FBI, Chelsey can search for clues on the Harmony Santos disappearance. We’ll interview neighbors and track down this supposed ghost. If my intuition is correct, we’ll zero in on the same guy.”

  Pressing his lips together, Thomas glanced around the table.

  “There’s something you should know. Bell and Gardy involved themselves with my case because they believe this guy murdered a dozen people.”

  Raven shared a look with Chelsey.

  “A serial killer?” Raven asked.

  “This information doesn’t leave the table, understood?” Thomas waited until they nodded. “The FBI mapped the murders—Ohio, Michigan, the Mid Atlantic, New England. Even two unexplained disappearances in Ontario Province. If you draw a circle connecting the murders, Nightshade County falls in the center. If Agent Gardy is right, the same man who left the woman’s hand inside St. Mary’s church abducted Lonnie McKinney.”

  “And murdered a dozen people around the northeast,” LeVar said, bobbing his head in understanding.

  “I’ll learn more this afternoon when Agent Bell presents her profile.”

  “Wish I could be a fly on the wall for that meeting,” Chelsey said, drawing mutters of agreement.

  Thomas steepled his hands and swept his gaze across the table.

  “The possibility we’re all searching for the same person raises the danger level. We need open lines of communication, and I don’t want anybody encountering a suspect alone. Do we agree?”

  They did.

  “Good. Learn everything you can about the Peeping Tom.” Thomas turned to Chelsey. “Find a connection between Harmony Santos and Father Fowler. There must be a reason the killer targeted the confession booth inside St. Mary’s.” Chelsey scribbled a note. Thomas glanced at the clock. “I prefer spending the afternoon with friends, but I’m running late.”

  “Shep, you’ll share the profile with us?” LeVar asked.

  “As soon as it’s available.”

  21

  “Your compositions are sound, Ms. Schneider. But your writing is third-grade level and a black mark on the department.”

  Justice Thorin slid the essay across the desk. The girl glared at the red D drawn atop the essay. She rolled the paper into a cone shape and shoved it inside her book bag. The girl swung her fury to the professor.

  “But this is a photography class. Why are we writing essays at all?”

  “No matter your talent as an artist, you won’t get far in life if you can’t express yourself on paper. Words carry weight, Ms. Schneider. At their finest, they convey emotion and sway opinion. In your case, I only wish for proper grammar and a coherent thought.”

  “At least let me correct the mistakes.”

  “Your grade is final. If I allowed my students to rewrite their papers, I’d bury myself under a mountain of work. Now, if you’ll be so kind, I have a pressing engagement.”

  She cocked her head, ready for another argument before he waved her toward the door, as if batting away a bothersome fly. He blew out a breath when the door closed. Students these days wanted everything handed to them—high grades, simple assignments, a job gifted to them after college. Ms. Schneider would learn the hard way after she graduated. The world was a cruel, unforgiving place. There were no second chances, no grading on a curve in the real world. Either you kept pace with your peers, or you lost the race. And Ms. Schneider was a loathsome tortoise running against hares.

  Thorin checked his watch. Dammit. The banquet began in fifteen minutes.

  He removed a handheld mirror from his desk drawer and studied his reflection. Outside his room, shoes and sneakers shuffled by as students lumbered to their classes. Thorin licked his fingers and sculpted his hair until no strands were out of place. Icy blue eyes, the color of sapphire resting on the bottom of a pool, stared back at him. His smile faded when he remembered the banquet. What a waste of time.

  On his way out the door, Thorin grabbed his jacket and hung it over his shoulder. A boy called to him as he descended the stairway. He held up a hand without looking back.

  Sunlight blinded Thorin on the concrete steps outside the Arts Building. He shoved sunglasses over his eyes and crossed the quad, his eyes flicking over three Kane Grove University students sitting cross-legged on the lawn. Two girls, one boy. It was the girl in the flower-print skirt who caught his attention. She was a freshman in Bennet Dean’s Intro to Graphic Arts class. Thorin snickered. The girl wouldn’t learn anything from an uncreative slug like Dean. But he could teach her a thing or two. Thorin’s tongue slid across his lips as he passed. The other girl, a pudgy sloth with a nose ring, waved to Thorin. He smiled, his hidden eyes fixed on her freshman friend. The professor couldn’t say what attracted him to the freshman, just that she pulled his attention. She’d make a fine pet.

  The banquet hall sat in the Kitterly Building on the east side of the quad. The second he entered the building, Felicia Armstrong converged on Thorin. Her black, permed hair clung to her shoulders, and her heels clicked and echoed off the polished floor. She wore a gray pants suit and carried a leather briefcase that was nothing but a purse made to appear masculine. If Thorin snatched the briefcase from her hand and whipped it open, he’d spill makeup, lipstick, and car keys. Felicia didn’t fool him with the professional attire.

  “I didn’t think you’d make it.”

  “You doubted me, Felicia?”

  He never broke stride as he angled toward the banquet hall. Felicia hustled to keep up.

  “It’s just that you acted like you didn’t want to attend.”

  “Then you assumed wrong. I set aside two meetings for this . . . engagement. Now, where is the man of the hour?”

  Walking alongside Thorin, Felicia gave him a doubtful glance. A teenager with pink hair held the banquet hall door open.

  “Good afternoon, Professor Armstrong,” the girl said. Felicia doted over the girl. Thorin rolled his eyes. “And good afternoon to you, Professor Thorin.”

  Thorin put on his best smile, the one that concealed the wolf’s fangs.

  Ten tables covered by white cloths sat at regular intervals inside the banquet hall. Felicia hooked elbows with Thorin and pointed at a table near the front. He groaned. A table near the back would have provided a quick exit. Now Dr. Cooke or Professor Mills would pull him into a conversation after the banquet ended, and Thorin would never leave.

  Felicia scooted her chair forward. Thorin took the seat beside her. The banquet hall stank of beef and some vegetable medley that probably came from a plastic bag. When the server set lunch in front of them, Felicia thanked the girl as if the server had handed her a diamond necklace. While Felicia forked food into her mouth, Thorin glared at the colorless meal. He’d expected mediocrity, but this was an embarrassment. Dr. Cooke appeared with a wine glass. From the way Cooke’s legs wobbled, Thorin assumed this wasn’t the doctor’s first drink. Cooke raised the glass.

  “A wonderful honor for Professor Dean, don’t you agree, Justice?”

  “No one deserves it more,” Thorin said, chewing the inside of his cheek until he bled.

  “After the banquet, I’d like to discuss this year’s scholarship awards.”

  “So soon? Perhaps we should table the discussion for another time. I have class at two o’clock.”

  “No worries, Justice. I won’t keep you long.”

  Before Thorin could protest, Cooke gave a boisterous shout and waddled to the next table. Wonderful. Cooke would talk Thorin’s ear off about his glowing prodigies. None would amount to anything upon graduating, Thorin thought. But let them have their moment in the sun before life knocked them down a peg.

  Felicia stabbed an olive with her fork and pointed it at Thorin.

  “Lighten up, Thorin. This is the most talented class of artists I’ve seen since—”

&n
bsp; Two taps on the microphone cut Felicia off. Thorin wiped his mouth on his napkin and set the cloth on his lap. The crowd turned their attention to Dr. Cooke at the podium. He lowered the microphone to his mouth. Feedback shrieked through the hall, inciting a round of laughter.

  “We are gathered here today to honor Professor Dean for advances in the photographic arts.”

  Polite applause followed. For the next five minutes, Thorin forked salad and beef into his mouth while Cooke droned on and on about Bennett Dean. Standing at the side of the stage, Dean beamed with fake humility. When Cooke invited Dean on stage and presented him with his award, Thorin applauded. Felicia raised an eyebrow, questioning his sincerity.

  “Please,” Thorin said, staring at her through the tops of his eyes. “Who do you think gave Dean the idea for his thesis?”

  “You?”

  Thorin winked and turned back to the stage where Dean and Cooke shook hands and posed for pictures. After the dog and pony show ended, Thorin tossed his napkin on the table and pushed his chair back, hoping to escape before Cooke cornered him again. He leaned close to Felicia and whispered in her ear, close enough to smell her perfume.

  “Stick with me, Felicia. The Cookes and Deans come and go. But I’ll be running this department in five years.”

  Her mouth hanging open, Felicia stared at Thorin as he pushed through the crowd.

  22

  The Nightshade County Sheriff’s Department didn’t have space for a conference room. Instead, Thomas chose the interview room for the FBI briefing. The computer rested on a wobbly desk at the front of the room. A long table took up most of the floor space, and there weren’t enough chairs to accommodate his deputies, the FBI agents, and the handful of New York State Troopers who attended. Thomas nodded across the room at Trooper Fitzgerald, Darren Holt’s friend.